The Heart of the Ocean
by BritChick101
Summary: Seventeen year old aristocrat Mycroft Holmes, expecting to be married to a rich heiress, falls in love with the handsome but poor police-artist Greg Lestrade on board the ill-fated R.M.S. Titanic. For the tumblr Ao3 Auction.
1. Chapter 1

He never thought this day would come, but even so, as he stared at the image on the television, he realised that he had been waiting for it. He had assumed that any diamond hunters would have thought to check the safe long before now, but then, as he reminded himself daily, not everyone's mind worked like his. He thought of the hiding place as obvious, but it had taken them 84 years. He felt the hint of a blush creep across his cheeks as he stared at the drawing they were examining. He had assumed that it was destroyed, irreparably damaged by the water, lost forever in the wreckage. One more thing that existed only as a memory.

"Anthea, turn that up, will you?" he asked, and his assistant dragged herself away from her new Nokia Communicator text-messaging machine for just long enough to do as he asked before returning to the thing as though it were glued to her hands. He listened to the conversation between the reporter and the head of the expedition for as long as he could bear it. The man, Lovett, was pretending to be excited about the picture because it was a beautiful piece of art that deserved to be admired. It was beautiful, and Mycroft smiled to himself at the memory of the skilled hands that had drawn it. But Mycroft could see the disappointment in the diver's eyes, and the desperation in the slant of his shoulders. The picture was not the find he had hoped for.

Was there a date on the drawing? Of course, there must be; the artist was a professional after all. So this Lovett man must know that the picture was drawn on the day of the sinking. Irrevocable proof that the diamond must be somewhere on board. He smiled a knowing smile before asking Anthea to bring him the phone and a stopwatch.

He let her dial the number, and set up the timer. Under a minute, he estimated, between him saying his name and travel arrangements being made for him. A minute and a half at a push.

The line was crackly and the voice on the other end was punctuated with bursts of static, but he managed to convince the lackey who answered the call that he deserved to be redirected, and waited impatiently for the line to connect.

"This is Brock Lovett. What can I do for you, Mr... ?"

"Mycroft Holmes," he answered, and pointedly ignored the furrowed brow and questioning look of Anthea, starting the timer. It was a name that he hadn't used in a long time.

"Mr Holmes."

"I was just wondering if you had found the 'Heart of the Ocean' yet, Mr Lovett." Mycroft smiled at the flurry of activity on the other end of the call as Mr Lovett almost dropped the phone in shock.

"Alright. You have my attention, Mycroft. Can you tell me who the man in the picture is?"

Mycroft smiled. "But of course. The man in the picture is me."

There was another scramble of movement on the other end, and when Lovett asked whether it would be possible for Mycroft to visit the dive site, the old man stopped the timer and handed the phone to Anthea. She was better at arranging that sort of thing than he was. The timer said 54 seconds. He had been right. His age may have been in triple figures, but his mind was just as sharp as it had always been.

They sent him a helicopter. They were so desperate for information leading to the discovery of the diamond that they sent a helicopter to collect him within the hour. It was the furthest out to sea Mycroft had been since it happened. He had no desire to return to England and had certainly never wished to set foot on another boat again. Anthea sat beside him; her presence alone was a comfort to him. He knew what theories the explorers would have formed about him, and Anthea would be his shield against them. They would think him a liar, senile, after money or publicity. He just wanted to see his picture. A physical piece of evidence that it actually happened, that it was real.

They refused to let him walk, a team of young men instead choosing to lift him, wheelchair and all, from the helicopter and onto the deck. The noise, the sway of the boat, and the bubbling anticipation of seeing his drawing after so many years; it was too much. He could hear shouting, people calling to him, but he just had to try and block it out. He wanted to save his analytical prowess for the picture, perhaps notice details in it that he had forgotten, or had not noticed the first time.

Anthea noticed his agitation and wanted him to rest, but he refused, insisting on being taken directly to the picture. _His _picture. Mycroft raised his eyebrow at her, and she didn't argue, accepting instead the silent compromise that he had to stay in the chair.

The drawing was beautiful, the lines were sure and the shading perfect. Even without the memories associated with it, Mycroft liked to think that he would still have admired it, just for the pure joy of the piece of art. He stared at the page, and a version of himself 84 years younger stared back, an expression of wonder and defiance on his face (or was he just seeing it because of the memories that came rushing back to him? He couldn't be sure). The paper was submerged in a tray of water in order to preserve it, and the sway caused by the movement of the boat made it look like the subject was moving, like he was alive once more.

He remembered what it felt like, to lay there like that on the sofa in the middle of the room, clutching his fiancée's necklace in his fist, the gem a cold weight against his bare hip, feeling the eyes of the artist upon him, the thrill of vulnerability as he allowed the other man to just_ look_, hiding nothing, allowing those brown eyes to sweep over every inch of him, committing the image of his body to paper.

Mycroft was aware that the young man, Lovett, was trying to attract his attention, and dragged his eyes away from the drawing, and his mind away from the memories. Lovett wasn't exactly 'young' as the term is generally used, but to Mycroft, who was rapidly approaching 101, everyone was young. Lovett was pale and blonde, with bright and suspicious eyes. Mycroft could see that the dive was putting a great amount of pressure on him; his employer was badgering him for updates hourly, and his wife was threatening to leave him if he didn't spend more time at home. A lot was riding on the information that Mycroft could give him.

Lovett crouched before Mycroft's wheelchair and placed a photo of the blue diamond necklace upon his knee.

"Louis the Sixteenth wore a fabulous stone, called the Blue Diamond of the Crown, which disappeared in 1792, about the same time that Louis lost everything from the neck up. The theory goes that the crown diamond was chopped too... recut into a heart-like shape... and it became The Heart of the Ocean. Today it would be worth more than the Hope Diamond." Lovett looked more at Anthea as he said this, possibly attempting to impress her, probably thinking that Mycroft was too old and decrepit to understand such complex details.

"It was a dreadful, heavy thing," Mycroft said, not bothering to hide the disgust that came out in his voice. "It only came out of the box that one time."

"You actually think this is you?" Anthea asked. She gazed at the image with apparent disinterest, but Mycroft could see the curiosity blooming beneath the mask.

"It is me, dear," Mycroft asserted, "Though perhaps a direct visual comparison would be ill advised." An undercurrent of quiet and slightly embarrassed laughter filled the room, as the occupants tried not to connect the image on the page with the wizened and wrinkled old man before them.

Lovett smiled again, and pointed to the photo that still sat in Mycroft's lap. "I tracked it down through insurance records... an old claim that was settled under terms of absolute secrecy. Can you tell me who the claimant was, Mycroft?" His tone was condescending, as though he was talking to a child. His brother would have responded by reeling off every shocking fact that he could deduce about everyone in the room, but Mycroft was more dignified than that. Besides, he was too old for theatrics.

"I should imagine someone called Moriarty," he replied, and knew from the shift in the air that he had given the right answer. Lovett stood up, and finally dropped the condescending tone.

"James Moriarty, yeah. He bought the stone in France for his niece as an engagement present, and was travelling on Titanic with her fiancée, M Holmes, who was on the list of those unaccounted for after the sinking."

"Me. Of course, I stopped going by that name when we got to shore," he sighed. Anthea almost dropped her phone. Mycroft took her hand, giving it a gentle squeeze, a silent promise to explain everything. The poor woman had spent nearly 24 hours a day with him for going on eight years. He hoped that she wouldn't be too upset to find out just how little she knew of him and his life. He had grown to care for her company very much, even if he never told her so. Lovett noticed none of Anthea's discomfort, and carried on undisturbed.

"The claim was filed in America right after the sinking. So the diamond had to have gone down with the ship. See the date on the picture?" Lovett pointed to the drawing and Anthea squinted slightly at the blurred numerals.

"14th April 1912."

"Which means, if your grandfather is who he says he is, he was holding the necklace on the day the Titanic sank." Neither Mycroft nor Anthea bothered to point out that they weren't actually related. It was neither important nor insulting, so they didn't attempt to deny it. "Making you my new best friend," Lovett added, the condescending tone creeping back into his voice. Mycroft was tempted to tell him that if he didn't call his wife soon then she would be driven back into the arms of the older man she had previously had an affair with, but he resisted.

Lovett led them through to another room, filled with computer equipment. Mycroft didn't recognise most of it; he left that sort of thing to Anthea, as she was young and more technologically inclined than he was. The television screens showed live footage from two divers who were wandering the wreck below; one in the dining room and the other in a corridor on deck B. A big, burly man with a large amount of facial hair and badly-managed diabetes who had lied to his boss about his qualifications watched Mycroft carefully. Lovett introduced him as Bodine.

"Live from 12000 feet," Bodine said proudly. Mycroft suppressed the urge to state that this was obvious. "We got a simulation of the sink. Wanna see?" The bearded man was excitable; he had created the simulation himself, and clearly didn't get to show it off very often. Mycroft offered him a strained smile.

"Is that a good idea, Mr Bodine?" asked a mousy woman from the corner of the room, an unpaid intern by the look of her wrists. "The gentleman might not want to see..." Bodine ignored her, starting up his simulation.

"It's quite alright," Mycroft reassured her with a smile. "I'm actually quite interested." By the look on her face, Mycroft surmised that his was the most attention anyone had paid to her since her arrival on the boat.

Bodine hit a few buttons on a computer, an image of the ship appeared on a screen, and the animation moved along at the same pace as his well-practiced narration.

"She hits the berg on the starboard side and it sort of bumps along . . . punching holes like a Morse code, dit dit dit, along the side, below the water line. Now the forward compartments start to flood . . . and as the water rises, it spills over the watertight bulkheads, which unfortunately don't go any higher than E deck. As her bow is going down, her stern rises up . . . slow at first . . . and then faster and faster until finally it's got her whole ass is sticking up in the air, and that's a big ass, we're talking 20 or 30 thousand tons . . . okay, now the hull isn't designed to deal with that pressure . . . so what happens? SKRTTT! . . . She splits! Right down to the keel. Now stern falls back level . . . then as the bow sinks, it pulls the stern vertical, and then finally detaches. The stern section just sort of bobs there like a cork for a couple of minutes, floods, and then goes under about 2:20 a.m. Two hours and forty minutes after the collision."

The animation followed the bow of the ship as it slipped under the water. Lovett and Anthea were watching Mycroft for his reaction, but he gave them nothing, listening closely to the scientifically accurate appraisal from the bearded man. It was an increasingly common scenario; this man, this treasure hunter who called himself a historian, felt no connection to the events he researched. For Bodine, and many others, events of the past were just things that happened, things to be analysed, to have cause and effect and a timeline established, and then to be left alone, consigned to the history books. It wasn't real to them like it was to Mycroft. It was just a story, it didn't involve actual things happening to actual people.

"The bow section planes away, about half a mile, going 20 or 30 knots when it hits the ocean floor KABOOM! Pretty cool, huh?" Mycroft smiled again, almost genuinely this time.

"Thank you sir, for that fine forensic analysis. My brother would have been most impressed."

"You could explain it better," Anthea told him quietly, and he didn't disagree.

Lovett looked like he could have kissed her, but thankfully refrained. "Will you tell us about it?" He was fighting with himself, trying not to act too much like an excited puppy at the thought of the information Mycroft could give him.

Mycroft looked over at another of the computer monitors, where the video from below deck was still playing a live feed. He pulled himself to his feet, stepping closer to get a better look. Yes, this was the upper deck. It was now just a semi-rotten lump, but once it had been a grand doorway, with a footman on either side, each dressed in elegant suits, leading through to a room full of life and dancing. He could almost hear the music playing, the night when he was there, in his borrowed finery with his stunning smile… Mycroft's knees gave way, and Lovett dashed forward to catch him before he hit the floor, practically carrying him back to his chair.

"I'm going to take him for a lie down," he heard Anthea say, and could imagine Lovett nodding, the bearded man's silent agreement, the mousey intern's quiet concern. He tried to object, but the hands pulling him were stronger than his own.

"No!" he cried, and everything stopped. All eyes were upon him, questioning, assessing. He closed his eyes, allowing himself to drift into a meditative trance in order to slow his heart-rate._ Hold my brain; be still my beating heart._ Well that memory certainly wasn't going to help proceedings.

Lovett was the first to move, taking a voice recorder and setting it up on the table.

"Tell us, Mr Holmes."

"It's been 84 years," he tried to protest. It was a lousy excuse and he knew it. He had been clinging to those memories so hard that he could remember the details of those days better than the details of the previous week.

"Just tell us what you can." Mycroft looked at the eager and expectant faces of the other four people. Anthea's phone had been abandoned somewhere, all pretence of disinterest gone with it. He owed it to her at least. She deserved to know.

"Do you want to hear this story or not, Mr Lovett?" Mycroft asked, in protest to the interruption. The bearded man laughed, and Lovett remained thankfully silent.

Mycroft cast his mind back to the beginning, to memories he had never allowed to fade with time. He had pretended to himself for so long that these were events that happened to somebody else; a tale he had been told by an old friend from long ago. A name he no longer used, a history he no longer admitted to. A story he wished had never come to an end.


	2. Chapter 2

**Southampton, 10****th**** April 1912**

Mycroft made an attempt at being interested in the proceedings, but couldn't summon the required effort to even feign enthusiasm. He surveyed the pier through the window as the car edged through the throng of people; people were streaming forward to board the ship, jostling with hustling seamen and stokers, porters, and White Star Line officials barking orders. People embraced each other and shared tearful farewells, or waved and shouted to the people already on board. The atmosphere was electric, giddy, and excited; apparently Mycroft was the only person not looking forward to this endeavour, the only person within miles not looking forward to the moment when the great ocean liner would set sail.

Above them all, the Titanic rose from the water, the enormous superstructure gleaming a brilliant white in the noon sun, the four black and gold funnels rising high into the sky like the pillars of a Greek temple, all onlookers staring up at it in reverence.

The car stopped, the crowd of people ahead too dense to drive any further. The uniformed driver scuttled around to open the door for Mycroft, and he climbed out, surveying the scene and the ship before him.

"I don't see what all the fuss is about. It doesn't look any bigger than the Mauretania," Mycroft grumbled quietly.

Behind him, on the other side of the car, Moran, the valet, had opened the door for Mycroft's travelling companion. James Moriarty was in his mid-thirties, and still darkly handsome, his thick black hair slicked back, his grey suit perfectly pressed into clean, sharp lines to betray his fantastic wealth, his egotism clearly displayed in his arrogant smile.

"You can be blasé about some things, Mycroft, but not about Titanic. It's over a hundred feet longer than Mauretania, and far more luxurious. It has squash courts, a Parisian cafe... even Turkish baths."

Mycroft nodded absent mindedly, still unimpressed. "And they say she's unsinkable."

"It is unsinkable!" Moriarty declared, sounding so proud of the floating monstrosity that one could be forgiven for thinking that he was solely, or at least partially responsible for its extravagant existence. "God himself couldn't sink this ship!"

A porter hurried towards them and grasped Moriarty's arm, forgetting himself in his stress over the last minute preparations.

"Sir, you'll have to check your baggage through the main terminal, round that way-"

Moriarty nonchalantly handed the man a five pound note. The porter's eyes dilated in shock; he had probably never held such an amount of money in his hands at one time before, and likely never would again. Moriarty grinned at the effect his money could have on the unwashed masses.

"I put my faith in you, good sir. See my man," the aristocrat said breezily, indicating towards Moran. The valet was an intimidating man, tall and serious as an undertaker, but he wasn't nearly as intimidating as the pile of luggage the party had with them; about a dozen trunks, several suitcases, a wooden crate and a heavy steel safe. Suddenly the £5 tip didn't seem so generous.

The two gentlemen strode along the pier, past the health inspection queue at the third class entrance where the passengers were being checked for signs of lice, avoiding the exhilarated children playing tag in their Sunday best as they waited for their turn to be led down the cattle chute.

They reached the gangway for first class and joined the orderly queue of more civilised people. Mycroft looked up at the ship, a wall of bible-black steel, waiting to engulf him and carry him to his doom. Moriarty gestured for Mycroft to move forward, and the younger man had no choice but to follow his request. It was too late to turn back now. Mycroft knew that for most people the Titanic was the ship of dreams, and though he knew he was being melodramatic, he couldn't help but feel that for him it was a slave ship, taking him to America in chains. Outwardly he was everything a seventeen year-old gentleman should be - tall with a stately posture, sharply dressed and using his umbrella as a cane, his gingery curls delicately framing his pale face, his intelligent eyes seeming to miss nothing, well-educated with excellent business connections - but internally he was screaming. The surrender of his free will was not an enjoyable feeling, and went against his every instinct.

They entered the ship on Deck D, and a uniformed official checked their names off his list as he warmly welcomed them on board; Moriarty slipped a coin in the man's top pocket for the gesture. The first class entrance was richly decorated. Although it would later be simply the bit of corridor connecting the dining hall to the reception room, somebody had clearly thought about the fact that it would be the first part of the ship the first class passengers would see. The walls were a pale gold colour with mahogany panelling, and the floor was covered in the latest initiative - linoleum - a plastic sheeting designed to look like tile. The whole ship was a floating piece of art.

The rumbling of the engines steadily increased, unnoticed by most until it reached an unbroken humm, and the horn started to blow, signalling their imminent departure. The two gentlemen were led through corridors to their suite, where they were met by their luggage, brought by men in identical pristine white uniforms, and unpacked for them by women in the traditional maid's uniform of a black dress and starched white apron.

Their suite was magnificent, even Moriarty was forced to admit it. It was decorated in the Empire style, with panelled walls, plush carpets, vases of fresh flowers, and beautifully carved oak furniture. There was a large sitting room, a fifty foot private promenade deck, a bathroom with plumbed bath and hot running water, a wardrobe room, and three bedrooms with adjoining doors; Moriarty in the master room, Mycroft in the middle, and Moran on the end in the slightly smaller room specifically designed for a valet or maid.

To Mycroft, the sleeping arrangements were the perfect metaphor for the rest of his life; Moriarty and his servant surrounded him and watched his every move, forcing him to creep around on tiptoe if he ever hoped to do a single thing without their detection.

The hum of the engines reached a peak, and the lurch in his stomach told him they were finally moving; Mycroft prayed that he wasn't about to be seasick. The cheering and shouting from outside confirmed that they were leaving port, as the third and second class passengers cried out their final farewells to the lucky individuals being left behind. There would be few first class passengers out on deck; their goodbyes would have been much more dignified, conducted in the foyers of homes and hotels.

As he accepted a glass of bucks fizz from the room service waiter, Mycroft suddenly wished he'd had the chance to say a proper goodbye to his brother. Sherlock may have been the reason Mycroft was here, but the elder Holmes couldn't find it in himself to hate his baby brother. Sherlock had to choose between do or die; Mycroft's options had been do or see his brother die. And as the ship left Southampton and headed for Cherbourg, Mycroft knew that only the loss of someone he loved would be worse than the fate that he now faced.


	3. Chapter 3

**11****th**** April 1912**

By the next afternoon, the Titanic was on its way, with nothing out ahead of her but open ocean. The prow of the ship cut through the water like a knife through butter, and the breeze rippled through Mycroft's hair like a song. The captain made himself visible, taking tea out on deck, surveying the smooth running of his ship like a proud father, and two third class passengers stood on the front railing, declaring that they were kings of the world. Mycroft wished he could enjoy the experience, but every appearance of Moriarty or Moran brought him back to reality with an increasingly painful thump.

The stops at Cherbourg, France and Queenstown, Ireland had been mostly uneventful for the passengers on board, though it did provide entertainment in the form of new passengers, if that could be called entertainment. The most talked about of the new passengers was a woman named Martha Hudson, who caused a scandal upon arrival by carrying her own bags instead of allowing the porter to carry them for her. Also among the newcomers were the ship's financer, Bruce Ismay, and designer, Thomas Andrews. Moriarty pulled some strings and ensured that all three were seated at the same table as he and Mycroft for dinner.

Also joining them, to even out the numbers, were two women, who both appeared to be in fashion; one a designer, judging by the state of her left thumb, and the other clearly a writer. They appeared to know each other by reputation and pointedly refused to speak to each other for the duration of the meal.

"She's the largest moving object made by the hand of man in all of history," Mr Ismay boasted, resisting the constant urge to twiddle with the tips of his handlebar moustache. "And our master shipbuilder, Mr Andrews here, designed her from the keel plates up."

He gestured towards his college, who looked uncomfortable with all attention focused on him. He was a softly spoken Irishman, in his early thirties, who clearly became a designer because he preferred the quiet solitude that sitting drawing allowed; Mycroft quite liked him.

"Well, I may have knocked her together, but the idea was Mr Ismay's. He envisioned a steamer so grand in scale, and so luxurious in its appointments, that its supremacy would never be challenged. And here she is, willed into solid reality." Despite his discomfort, the pride Mr Andrews had in his creation was clear in his eyes.

"Why are ships always called 'she'?" Mrs Hudson asked. "Is it so men can talk about a lady's 'stern' in polite company without causing outrage?" The other diners laughed and Mrs Hudson smiled, not entirely unaware that they were laughing more at her than with her. She was what people were calling New Money; born into a lesser class and largely uneducated before her husband made a name for himself, allowing them to buy their way into society. She looked and dressed like a lady, but she had the voice and restraint of a commoner on the street. Mycroft quite liked her as well.

The waiter arrived at the table to take their orders for the main course. Most ignored him, but the uneducated eyes of Mrs Hudson followed him as he did his rounds.

"We'll both have the lamb," Moriarty told him, indicating towards Mycroft. "Rare, with very little mint sauce."

Mycroft felt like he'd been slapped in the face. A man normally ordered for his wife, a sign of his power over her, and a symbol of her inherently female indecisive nature. To order for another man was a blatant insult, a clear sign to all present that under no circumstances did he regard the man seated next to him as his equal.

The waiter glanced at Mycroft as if to receive confirmation, but Moriarty was having none of it. "What are you waiting for? I just gave you his order. Tell me, when I have you fired, will they confine you to quarters or simply throw you overboard?" The waiter scuttled away without another word.

Mrs Hudson watched the exchange with surprise. "Are you going to cut his meat and maybe eat it for him too, Jim?" she asked venomously. The two glared at each other for a moment before Mrs Hudson broke the tension with a false smile. "So, who came up with the name Titanic?" she asked loudly, addressing the table at large. "Was it you, Bruce?"

"Yes, actually," Mr Ismay replied. "I wanted to convey sheer size. And of course, size means stability, and luxury and safety-"

"Do you know of Mr Freud?" Mycroft interrupted.

"No, who is he, another passenger?"

"A writer, an Austrian doctor of neurology. His theory on the male preoccupation with size may be of particular interest to you, Mr Ismay."

The two fashion ladies missed the joke, but Mrs Hudson's eyes widened in shock and amusement, and Mr Andrews almost choked on a bread stick as he struggled not to laugh out loud.

"I see I shall have to mind more carefully what you read from now on, Mr Holmes" Moriarty warned. The corners of his mouth curved upwards into a smile, but his eyes flashed with humiliated anger.

Mycroft rose to his feet and threw his napkin down onto his plate. "If you'll excuse me I need some air."

He left the dining hall in a trance. This was to be his life now. He was to live under the thumb of James Moriarty, the subject of ritual humiliation, a well-dressed puppet. He stepped out into the night, pulling in lungfulls of refreshingly cold air. This was his life. This was his choice.

He walked along B deck as calmly as he could, his head spinning. He couldn't live like this, waiting for either himself or Moriarty to die so that he could reacquire his freedom, systematically having the life stamped out of him. He descended the steps to the poop deck and carried himself to the very back of the ship. Below him, the propellers created a creamy white froth on the surface of the water, the swash of the water a calming sound.

When Sherlock found himself in this position, do or die, he had chosen the second option, rejecting Moriarty's offer, staring him in the face and saying he'd rather forfeit his life. Could Mycroft do the same? Looking down at the churning water, he knew he could. He had to. He placed his hand on the cold steel of the railing, and lifted himself onto the first rung. It was built like a ladder, inviting the idea, designed for this very purpose, to give Mycroft his freedom. He ascended another rung, then another, climbing over to the other side and carefully arranging himself, facing out to sea, holding on to the railing behind him, straightening his arms so that he was leaning out over the water. How easy it would be, to simply let go and let the suffocating life he was living sail away and leave him behind. To not have to deal with it, any of it, any more. It would be such a relief. He took a deep breath.

"Don't do it."

The voice broke Mycroft out of his trance. He whipped his had around to see the source of his interruption, and his eyes settled on a young man, about the same age as Mycroft. He was handsome, with dark hair, the rugged complexion of a man who spends most of his time outdoors, and was dressed in course layers. He stood about twenty feet from the railing, his stance defensive, and a lit cigarette in his outstretched hand. Mycroft wondered how long he had been there. Had he somehow walked straight past the man? Or had this third class passenger for some reason followed him?

"Stay back!" Mycroft cried. "Don't come any closer!"

The man ignored him, and edged closer. He switched his cigarette to his other hand, and stretched his arm out towards Mycroft.

"Give me your hand, I'll help you back over."

Mycroft hesitated. This man was acting as though Mycroft had ended up where he was by accident.

"No! Stay where you are. I'll let go!"

The man edged closer and, holding up his cigarette to show his intention, shuffled a little nearer to the edge so that he could throw it overboard. He was now about five feet from Mycroft, close enough to see that his eyes were dark, and a hint of stubble grew around his chin.

"No you will not" he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Mycroft was suddenly angered. He'd had enough of people dictating his life to him; that was why he was here after all, to escape the pressures of other people! And now this man, this nobody, was joining in with them.

"Excuse me! What do you mean? How dare you presume to tell me what I will or will not do?"

The man put his hands up, palms forward, the universal sign for peace. "I just meant, you would have done it already."

Mycroft was confused. He had been so sure a moment ago, this was the only way out, the perfect way out. But now, the presence of this man made him forget all of those wonderful reasons. Was it do or die? Or do and die.

"You're distracting me, go away."

"I can't, I'm a bit too caught up in this to leave now. If you let go of that railing, I have to jump in there after you." As if to emphasise his point, the man pulled off his jacket in preparation.

"Don't be absurd. You'd be killed" Mycroft stated, false confidence in his voice.

"I can swim."

"And? The fall alone would kill you."

"No, I don't think so, not from this high. It'd hurt though. I'm more concerned about that water being cold."

The man was pulling off his boots now, still preparing to live up to his word.

"How cold?"

"Freezing, maybe a degree under."

Mycroft snorted. "The current air temperature is below freezing, the water will feel comparatively warm!"

"Well, if you say so, you're the one with the fancy education. I'm just not so sure. Ever been to Kinross?" Mycroft stared at him, perplexed by the sudden twist in the conversation. The man raised an eyebrow and, realising the stranger was awaiting an answer, Mycroft shook his head. "It's in Scotland-"

"Yes, thank you, I'd worked that out" Mycroft snapped.

"Sorry, just you look like more of a city boy with the fancy suit and all."

"You're hardly Scottish," Mycroft grumbled, "isn't that accent Somerset?"

The man nodded. "From near Bristol," he acknowledged. "Anyway, as I was saying, I went away to Kinross with my dad before he died, and there was this frozen lake, Dow Loch. I went through some thin ice, and I'm telling you, being in water that cold, it's like being stabbed, over and over again, by a thousand knives. Shock forces you to breathe in, so you breathe in water, so then you get it from the inside too. You stop being able to think about anything but the pain. Which is why I really hope you don't let go. I'm really not looking forward to going in there after you."

Mycroft thought about it. Not being able to think any more sounded like a welcome relief. A few minutes of physical pain sounded better than the eternity of mental agony and humiliation he would otherwise endure. But he couldn't force the same fate onto this other man, this well-meaning but hapless stranger who had taken it upon himself to save Mycroft from deamons unknown.

The man took a final step forward, and now stood within touching distance.

"Take my hand," he whispered, right hand outstretched, palm inviting. A smudge of high quality charcoal on his thumb. An artist?

Mycroft knew that he couldn't let this man jump after him. He wanted out, more than anything, but he couldn't do it if it meant ending the life of this stranger as well. He looked at this man's eyes; warm and kind, framed by dark lashes and faint laughter lines. A face accustomed to both squinting at details and to smiling. Mycroft released the breath he had forgotten he was holding, and carefully twisted himself around, placing his right hand in the stranger's.

The man smiled; it was a wonderful sight. His whole being seemed to shine with it. He squeezed Mycroft's hand just slightly, the action seeming as natural as a simple handshake.

"Greg Lestrade" the stranger said.

"Mycroft Holmes" he replied, squeezing Greg's hand in turn.

Greg grinned. "Mycu- I might have to get you to write that one down!" Mycroft let out a small laugh, and realised that this was the first genuine smile his face had formed since the day before he met Moriarty.

Both of them just stood there for a moment, hand in hand, smiling at each other, as if this were the most relaxed and normal introduction on the planet. Neither seemed to want to be the first to interrupt the silence, or to release his grip on the other's hand. It was one of those endless moments, it could mean nothing or it could mean everything. For those few seconds Mycroft felt his entire world were balancing on a scale, waiting for fate to tip him one way or the other.

And tip him it did. As he edged himself around, preparing to allow Greg to assist him onto the correct side of the railing, his stomach lurched, and the metal bar was suddenly gone from beneath his feet. With nothing left to support him, Mycroft felt himself falling towards the icy depths of the water below.


End file.
